


The Most Natural Thing in the World

by greatveiledbear



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, John may be slightly psychic?, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Mutual Pining, Nightmares, Pining, Pre-Reichenbach, Rated Teen for referenced/implied violence, Sherlock Has A Nightmare, So much pining omg, or something, they just don't know it yet, two idiots in love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-20
Updated: 2016-03-20
Packaged: 2018-05-27 21:07:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 998
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6300460
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/greatveiledbear/pseuds/greatveiledbear
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock has a nightmare, and goes to John for comfort.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Most Natural Thing in the World

**Author's Note:**

> The lovely a-false-hope-fan translated this fic into Russian, so if you speak Russian check that out here! https://ficbook.net/readfic/4324489 ! (And check them out at a-false-hope-fan.tumblr.com. :) )

John wakes up gradually. It’s dark in his room, and it takes him a minute to understand that it’s still night, or very early morning. He rolls over to see the clock. 3:41.

Then he realizes that Sherlock is sitting on the edge of the bed.

“Sherlock?” John mumbles, rubbing his eyes. “What’s going on? New case?” He blinks and waggles his eyebrows, trying to wake himself up.

Sherlock shakes his head. “Nothing like that,” he says. His shoulders draw a tense line in the dim room.

John frowns, trying to puzzle out why Sherlock is in his room. Not that he hasn’t fantasized about this before, but…not like this. “What’s wrong?” he asks, levering himself up on his elbows.

Sherlock lets out a long breath and rubs his face. “Nothing,” he says. He seems shaky. “Just a—just a bad dream.” He swallows. “I needed to make sure you were still here.”

“Oh.” John didn’t know Sherlock had nightmares. It’s no surprise, not after what they’ve been through.

He sits up and touches Sherlock’s shoulder. The detective is warm, only a thin T-shirt separating John’s hand from his skin. He’s trembling.

“What was the dream?” John asks softly.

“I dreamed you—it was the swimming pool. With—with Moriarty.” Sherlock closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. He grabs John’s hand. “I dreamed the explosives went off.”

“Oh,” says John, and then, “ _Oh_.” He understands now. He’s had similar dreams about Sherlock, dreams that he couldn’t shake off until he saw his friend’s face in the morning. In John’s dreams, Sherlock is falling, his coat flapping behind him, arms wheeling for balance he will never regain. There’s always a skip between the fall and the impact—John never sees Sherlock’s head strike the pavement, but he sees the blood dripping down the cold body’s forehead after it lands.

He pushes away the thought and squeezes Sherlock’s shoulder. “It’s all right,” he says gently. “They didn’t go off. I’m here. I’m right here, and I’m not going anywhere.”

“But what if you _do_ , John? What if you get killed and then I have to live without—” And then Sherlock buries his face in his hands, his shoulders shaking as he makes awful muffled noises, refusing to cry aloud.

John pulls him into his arms, rubbing his back. “Jesus,” he sighs. “It’s okay, Sherlock, it’s okay…” Sherlock is trembling in his arms, warm and heavy and _alive_ , and his hair is so soft when John strokes it. John closes his eyes and presses his nose to Sherlock’s neck, breathing in his scent. He doesn’t smell like he does during the day, of wind and formaldehyde and coffee. Right now, Sherlock smells of soap and sleep. He wraps his arms around John’s torso, clinging to him like a drowning man to a floating plank as he sobs into John’s shirt.

It takes a while for Sherlock to stop shaking, but even after he does, he doesn’t let go of John. He can’t be comfortable, John thinks, not with his spine twisted like that, but he still hangs on. John doesn’t want this to end—now that Sherlock has stopped crying, holding him is actually rather nice. He feels different than any of John’s girlfriends have. It’s closer, somehow. More real. More intimate. More safe. John shifts, nudging Sherlock up a little to embrace him in a way that won’t bend his spine.

“I should go,” Sherlock mutters into John’s shoulder, but he doesn’t loosen his hold.

John doesn’t want this to end. “D’you want to stay in here tonight?” he asks, pretending it’s the most natural thing in the world. “In case you have another nightmare?”

Sherlock nods against him and John smiles. He finally releases his friend and slides back under the covers, holding up the blanket for Sherlock to join him. They lie inches apart, hands still entwined and noses almost brushing.

God, it would be so easy to kiss him.

John pushes the thought away. Even if they were partners—which would be amazing, but isn’t going to happen, despite the way John longs for it, because surely Sherlock’s deduced how he feels, and surely if he wanted it he would have said so by now—Sherlock’s in no place for kissing tonight. Still, John wishes he could press a kiss to his friend’s forehead, a reassurance that he’s not going anywhere. That neither of them are. They’re safe and sound in Baker Street, and maybe it will stay that way and maybe it won’t, but right now that’s true and it’s all that matters to John.

Sherlock’s eyes are grey in the dim light. He seems lost, somehow, sleepy and vulnerable as he stares into John’s face with his lips parted slightly. It takes all that John has to confine himself to a smile as he whispers, “Good night, Sherlock.”

“Good night, John,” Sherlock murmurs, and his eyes are still open when John’s close. It’s going to take a while for John to get to sleep, but he lets his breathing even and slow anyway, and soon he starts to drift off.

 

Sherlock waits until John is fully asleep to shift forward and kiss him, ever so gently, their lips barely brushing before he pulls away. He strokes John’s cheek with his thumb, then rolls over and stares at the wall, listening to the reassurance of his best friend’s breathing. He’s stolen this small thing, and he knows it will never happen again. It _can’t_. God, Sherlock wants it to, but it can’t. He’s seen John’s romances fail over and over again, and Sherlock thinks it would break him if the same happened to them. He won’t let his feelings get in the way of their friendship. He won’t allow himself to ruin the best thing he’s ever, ever had. So instead he walks through his mind palace, exploring every room with even a hint of John, until dawn peeks through the blinds.

**Author's Note:**

> I DON'T EVEN KNOW OKAY IT'S BEEN LIKE THREE HOURS SINCE I POSTED MY LAST FIC AND THEN THIS ONE SNUCK UP ON ME
> 
> Anyway
> 
> Hope you enjoy!!
> 
> I'm also at greatveiledbear.tumblr.com. Come say hi! :D


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